


Four Times Sara and Lincoln Tackled Michael Down (and One Time They Pushed Him Up)

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Alternate Canon, F/M, Gen, M/M, Post-Series, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 04, Sibling Incest, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-10 00:04:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4369520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have this tendency to gang up on him <i>for his own good</i> – or so they say. (Seasons 2 & 4, post-series, alternate canon. Ensemble of five tiny ficlets. The Michael/Lincoln/Sara aspect is relatively tame and only shows up in the fifth one: if it’s not your cup of tea, as long as you stop reading at the end of the fourth drabble, you’re safe.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times Sara and Lincoln Tackled Michael Down (and One Time They Pushed Him Up)

They have this tendency to gang up on him _for his own good_ – or so they say. Not that he questions their intentions. It’s just that sometimes...

 

**1.**

The hotel bedroom in Chicago is quiet and comfortable. When they push him across the bed (he bounces a bit on the mattress), he would almost go down without resistance, roll himself into the soft sheets and blankets and do as they say when they order to him, “Sleep.”

Thing is, Linc and Sara head for the small table with the laptop still open on it, and it’s slightly humiliating to be ordered to take a nap when _they_ plan to keep working on the files the three of them have been working on up until now. There’s no reason why he should be more exhausted than they are. Except... maybe because between two murderous glances thrown at Kellerman, Sara actually had the good sense to rest and sleep in the backseat of the car; and Lincoln is a bull in a human form anyway, and about as resistant.

He tries to sit up nonetheless, just on principle, and ends up with the hand of his bull of a brother planted in the middle of his chest and the deceptively soft voice of Sara insisting that he should rest.

He does.

 

**2.**

He’s not at his best, he’ll admit that much – tumor and all that stuff. It probably explains why he doesn’t react as fast as he should. Deafening gun shots, tires screeching, shouts and brisk movements, and it all happens far too quickly for him to register. He’s shoved down and behind the car. He can feel the scorching and coarse texture of the asphalt beneath the skin of his cheek, Sara’s hand splayed on his skull and the combined weights of Sara and Lincoln’s bodies on him. The two of them weigh about five hundred pounds by the way – something he’s _not_ going to share with Sara – but it’s okay. For a couple of seconds, the gun shots and shouts and noisy tires don’t matter anymore; he could stay like that for the rest of his life, squished and pressed down but drowning in the two people who matter the most. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Linc’s hand on the back of Sara’s head, his fingers tangled into her brown-red hair, and he smiles because Sara’s hand is still on _his_ head.

Then someone shoots back, and Lincoln decides he should help.

When everything gets quiet again and they get up, Michael sees Alex walking towards them, smoking gun still in hand, hair messy and arms spread wide in protest.

“Thanks, guys,” he says wryly.

Sara has the good taste to blush a bit when she replies, “Sorry, Alex.”

 

**3.**

He won’t talk.

Last time they saw him, he was breaking Sara out of Miami Dade and everybody left him for dead. When he showed up on her doorstep fucking months later, he was very much alive, although sporting suspicious scars and looking like something crappy the cat would have dragged in. That’s the part he won’t talk about, the scars and the pitiful-mouse-dragged-in-by-the-cat look.

At first – in addition to a long bath and clean clothes because he stinks, as Lincoln kindly puts it – they give him some leeway. Then they stop giving him the leeway because you can’t pull this kind of stunt without people calling you on it. One night, Sara’s hands land on his shoulders from his right, Lincoln’s from his left, and they sit him down on the couch in the living room. They want explanations; they want them now. Not why he did this – it’s pretty obvious – but how and who helped, if anybody helped, and what is that damn scar drawing a half circle between his navel and the small of his back, and...

He still won’t talk.

They can’t always win...

They frown, sniffle, purse their lips, and eventually, Sara gets up and disappears down the dark hallway leading to the bedroom. Her eyes are sad, her shoulders hunched, but she keeps her head high – doesn’t she always? Lincoln follows her, pretending not to glance at him still sitting in the living room.

… or you know, maybe they _can_ win.

He trails after them.

 

**4.**

Two sets of hands drag him down almost as efficiently as they did over five years ago, in that deserted industrial compound in L.A. The only difference today is that he lands swiftly, and with his face buried in the rich green grass of the back garden instead of dirty macadam. It reminds him that he needs to mow the thing, and he’s going to... soon. The small blades of grass tickle his nose, desperately making him want to sneeze. Lincoln pinches his nostrils and gives him a stern look, the look that since they were kids has always meant _shut up or I’ll make you sorry for opening your big mouth_.

So he shuts up. Given Sara’s grin and the way it reaches her eyes, it can’t be something serious.

“We’re playing hide and seek with Mikey,” she explains good-naturedly, her voice a whisper into his neck. He shivers despite the heat.

“I’m sorry?” he protests when the delicious goose-bumps caused by her breath brushing over his skin subside and he can gather his wits.

“That little brat is good at it,” Lincoln grumbles.

Well, he _should_ be good at it considering who his parents and uncle are and the circumstances in which he was conceived, shouldn’t he?

“If you left your first hideaway, aren’t you... cheating?” Michael points out. “On a five year-old?”

“He’s good at it,” Lincoln repeats slowly, emphasizing each syllable as though Michael is dumb. “You can’t win against him if you don’t cheat!”

 

**5.**

When he wakes up, he’s comfortably nestled between them; Sara and Lincoln cradling him, their legs and hands and breaths entwining and mingling. He tries to get up because it’s too much, too early. He’s slightly aching from last night and too damn hungry – for actual food. They catch him instinctively, their arms snaking around him and pulling him down, their eyes still closed, unrefined protests escaping them. Who does he think he is to disrupt a perfect morning in such a way?

Sara presses her thigh between his legs, her lips against his lips, and Lincoln’s hand slides down his back and curls on his hip. His brother’s fingers playfully fumble with the waistband of the boxer shorts Michael put on to sleep and, while doing so, brush the smooth skin of Sara’s leg. She squints at Linc with sleepy eyes, not entirely displeased by the touch. Totally pleased by the touch, if her small smile is anything to go by.

Michael lets his head loll back on the pillow, lies down and bathes in their warmth; just enjoying the moment.

“Where do you think you were going anyway?” Sara asks. She kisses the hollow at the base of his throat, grabs Lincoln’s hand and repositions it with authority. None of the men second guess her decision.

“Coffee,” he murmurs in response. “Juice. Breakfast.”

He won’t talk in full sentences right now.

There’s a barely perceptible but so real stiffening in the welcoming bodies cuddling him. Sara leans up on her elbow and looks at Linc above Michael’s head. Noses wrinkle, eyebrows crook up knowingly; eventually, hands slip under his back and push him up and out of the bed. They rearrange themselves in the messy bedding, stretch out and pat each other familiarly; they downright appropriate the spot he just left.

“Good idea,” they approve. “Go for it.”

\- - - - -

… So it’s not that he questions their intentions; it’s just that sometimes, they have their own peculiar definition of what _his own good_ is.

FIN

\--Comments and/or kudos are always welcome and appreciated :)


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